


learning to be

by SkylandMountain1013



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Speculation, post-framework arc, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10082147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkylandMountain1013/pseuds/SkylandMountain1013
Summary: She doesn’t know how to fix problems she doesn’t remember causing.Spoilers through 4x15. Speculation beyond that. Assume everyone gets rescued from the Framework.. somehow.PG-13. Maybe a light R. I wouldn't read this at work. Just in case.





	

  **i.**

She leaves the lab and all she can think about is getting to a shower. A real shower, not the antiseptic wipe downs of quarantine.

 

She smells like blood and dirt and adhesive and the distinct scent of melting circuits and skin. (She reminds herself it wasn’t real skin.)

 

It needs to be gone.

 

She’s not surprised that Coulson is half a step behind her, and she’s not surprised at the words coming out of his mouth.

 

“—you haven’t been cleared. You should be back there resting.”

 

“I’ve done nothing but rest for the past 5 weeks. I’m fine.” She just needs to clean up. She sees the door to her bunk up ahead.

 

“We aren’t aware yet of the potential side effects of long term exposure to the Framework-“

 

“Yeah. Simmons made that crystal clear. Multiple times. If I’m going to go crazy, I’d like to do it on my own terms.” She punches in the code to the door and wipes the residual smudges away in disgust.

 

He’s still in step behind her as she gathers a fresh set of clothes. She thinks she may burn the ones she has on.

 

She’s managed to tune him out—mostly. The shower is in front of her and she whips around to face him. The aroma of grease in her hair is overpowering. “How long do you plan on following me?”

 

The flush creeps up his neck as he takes in his surroundings. He rubs a hand through his hair and stumbles his words. “I’m sorry. You’re an adult. I just—it’s been—“

 

She doesn’t have the energy to decipher him. Not right now. “You can stay. I don’t care. Hand me that towel and turn around.”

 

He obliges and thank god she’s under the spray of the water moments later and it’s the best damn thing she’s ever felt in her life. She lets the steam and water and soap engulf her and she starts to feel human.

 

She watches his hazy form through the shower door, slumping to the ground with a sigh. Guilt creeps in. “I promised Simmons I would have everyone keep an eye on me. Report out with any changes in behavior or personality.”

The water ricocheting off the walls make his voice sound even more muffled than she’s sure it is. “You were gone while you were still _here_. And I couldn’t figure it out. And then I did, and then we were both gone. It’s hard to sort what’s reality right now.”

 

She opens the door far enough to stick her head out. The clean air assaults her.

 

“ _Phil.”_ He tugs at his tie. “I’m real. You’re real. We’re real.”

 

He cranes his neck up at her. “Okay.”

 

**ii.**

The snap of tape on leather is comforting.

 

_Jab. Jab. Cut._

 

She breathes heavily, focusing on the sound of the blood rushing through her ears. It reminds her that it’s been too long since her muscles have had this much use.

 

_Kick. Punch. Duck._

She hears footsteps enter the room, and the cadence tells her exactly who it is. He hops up on the exercise hutch with a thud.

 

_Jab. Punch._

“Fitz needs your data on what your Framework experience was.”

 

“I told him I don’t have any recollection of it.” The bag stills and she rolls her head in a slow circle. The pops of her vertebrae are welcoming.

 

She doesn’t want to talk about this.

 

“You’re the only one who can’t remember what happened in there. Something isn’t adding up.”

 

“There’s nothing to add up. I got kidnapped. The original rescue mission failed. The secondary one didn’t.”

 

She won’t tell him about the conversations that won’t get out of her head—her voice saying things she doesn’t remember. Saying things she would never say. The voices of the rest of the team- sounding like them but clearly not being them.

 

“May. We _all_ had a traumatic experience in there. You can talk about it. You need to talk about it.”

 

She finally turns to face him. “I had a shrink once. Didn’t end well. Don’t need another.” The anger lacing her words is misguided but she can’t let it go.

 

His eyes widen and when he speaks, she hears the measured clip of his sentences and she knows she’s hit a nerve. “If you think I’m suggesting this as a coworker or as part of some goddamn Shield protocol, then-“

 

“-then _what_ , Coulson?”

 

The slam of the door is the only response.

 

 

**iii.**

2 am is well beyond the point of protocol, so she lets herself into his room without hesitation.

 

He's awake (she knew he would be), and if he's surprised to see her, he doesn't let it show.

 

Instead he feigns indignation. "What if I was indecent?"

 

"You weren't."

 

"I could have been!"

 

"Alright." She slides out of her slippers and shuffles onto the bed.

 

She's struck by how old he looks. Hair greying at his temple, worry lines etched across his face- although she's sure she doesn't look any better.

 

"I can't sleep," she says plainly.

 

"I know the feeling."

 

He asks if it’s nightmares, and she shakes her head no immediately. Because it's not. She's dealt with those long enough to know how to get through them- and it's been decades since she's needed to reach for him in the darkest corner of the night.

 

"I have these pictures in my head- things I've done, places I've been, but I know they're not real. It's like watching a movie that you don't remember filming."

 

He nods and stretches his arms above his head. She focuses on how his shirt sneaks across his midsection. "It's the LMD link. Radcliffe made sure that there was always a neural connection between the LMD and it's-" he thinks before the next words- "carbon copy. So even though you didn't live those events, they're in your memories."

 

"That's real fucked up," she says with a sigh. "Even for us."

 

“Tell me.” It’s a quiet plea—not the demand of earlier in the week.

 

She props herself up against the headboard and focuses on the world she only knows from her thoughts. “A lot of you and me. Mostly good. Talking. We never talk.”

 

He nods, confirming her description. She thinks he looks wistful. She’s not sure.

 

She closes her eyes as the film in her mind leads to it’s climax—the one that’s been keeping her up. “I think I pulled a gun on you.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Jesus, Phil.”

 

He lays his glasses on the nightstand and starts rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if it helps, but I think I did the same to you.”

 

She’s seen pieces of that as well- Blood. A promise of no pain. Lies. Love. Sacrifice. An explosion. Choice.

 

A faint shudder runs through his body and she knows he’s seeing it too.

 

"What the hell did we do to each other?"

 

She doesn’t have an answer. She doesn’t know how to fix problems she doesn’t remember causing.

 

His answer is to lift the corner of his comforter and offer it to her. "Stay?"

 

She doesn’t need to. But she also can’t think of a reason not to want to. She slides down and he forces off the lights.

 

Once her eyes adjust she watches the rise and fall of his chest until hers follows suit.

 

 **iv.**  

The microwave dings and she knows her father would disapprove. ( _Melinda. Good Asian food comes from the heart. Not square white boxes.)_ But it’s been a long day and the Kung Pao Chicken in the fridge looked too good to pass up.

 

The first bite of rice barely passes her lips when the couch sags next to her.

 

“Hey.” Coulson is holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

 

“Wednesday night drinking? I think I approve.”

 

He shrugs and places everything down on the table. “You never had that drink. Sorry it’s not the Haig,” he winces. “Robots.”

 

She reads the label on the bottle and gives him a look. It may not be Haig, but it’s still top shelf.

 

“Mace never changed the combination to the storage locker in his office,” He explains, shrugging. “Besides. He owes me. He just doesn’t realize it.”

 

“Well now I definitely approve.”

 

He eyes the take out box. “Golden Dragon?”

 

She nods, so he grabs her fork and spears himself a peapod.

 

"Hey, that's mine!"

 

"Actually I think it's Mack's."

 

She grabs the fork out of his mouth. "I could kick his ass if needed to."

 

They trade bites until the box is empty. She reaches for the liquor on the table.

 

The bottle is opened and drinks are poured and she asks what they are drinking to. This is his idea, after all.

 

His answer is thoughtful. “Humanity. Reality. Moving forward.”

 

Glasses clink and she takes a sip. She tastes smoke and spice and warmth.

 

A contented silence sits between them as they both finish their drinks.

 

“Do you think it’s true? That even though the LMD’s were machines, they were acting on our intrinsic wants and needs?”

 

“The science makes sense,” He offers. “But I studied history, so..”

He’s studying his empty glass and she realizes that the space between them has disappeared.

 

So she makes a choice.

 

He tastes like soy sauce and toothpaste and _home_.

 

 

**v.**

Her world is on fire.

 

They’re in an air handler room of all places, because whatever has finally clicked between them has turned them into fucking teenagers who can’t make it to privacy. She doesn’t think he minds. She certainly doesn’t.

 

His mouth is hot against her collarbone and she feels her keys jabbing into the small of her back from being pinned against some pipes and she momentarily wonders if these pipes are important, what they control on the base and then his hand moves lower and she doesn’t wonder anymore.

 

“Jesus,” he hisses, as her hands skim under his shirt. She scratches his hair and circles his navel and closes her eyes in brief reverence as her fingers dance over the puckered skin of his scar.

 

He moves closer (she’s really not sure how that’s possible) and she feels how hard he is and he isn’t hiding it and so she positions her thigh between his and rubs just enough to create some friction.

 

“Old man,” he manages to grunt. “Need a soft landing spot.”

 

She moves away and immediately misses the connection.

 

A quick sweep of the hallway and she pulls him behind her, darting through the corridor. Her room is closer.

 

The door whooshes open.

 

They stumble towards the bed and she welcomes his skin.


End file.
